How to Impress a Marquess Page 5

  “Be quiet!” she cried.

  “I didn’t say anyth—”

  She crushed her head into his chest. Her hat poked his chin and the feather tickled his face. For all his dislike of emotional outbursts and wild displays of emotion, he wrapped his arms around her shaking body.

  “I’ll make sure everything is well for you,” he whispered in a soothing voice he didn’t know he possessed. Meanwhile, his rational mind was shouting What in the hell are you doing? Was he being a gullible frog again? Was this a trick? And did he care?

  “It won’t be.” Her lips brushed the skin above his collar as she spoke, sending a current of wild energy over him. What magic did she possess? It made no sense that the most annoying female in his life felt like the old ragged blanket he had slept with every night as a child until the nursemaid was ordered to toss it in the fire.

  She pulled away.

  “I want to be alone.” She gazed at her hands, where she rubbed the palm of one hand with the thumb of the other. “I need to wri—I want to be alone.”

  “That’s not wise.”

  She jerked her head up, her brows down, eyes hot. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not wise to be alone to stew in dark thoughts when you’re upset.”

  She stared at him for a beat more. Then a fragile but devilish smile wavered on her lips. “How would you know? Do you have dark thoughts, George? Is there a black stain on your soul that you have never revealed?”

  “Of course,” he quipped, easing back against the cushion. “When I’m not fighting with you, I’m excessively moody, brooding, and brimming with dark desire. Keats and those other chaps are mere shades of gray compared to my opaque blackness as I scribble parliamentary bills and orders for estate plumbing repairs.”

  “Stop making me chuckle. I’m very upset. I’ve lost my family…again.”

  He rested his hand on hers. “I’m your family.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He shrugged. “It says so on the trust paperwork. Bloodlines be dammed if the Bank of England says you’re related.”

  “Well, I don’t like you.”

  “So you see, we are family. True family members detest each other through thick and thin.”

  “You jest. You Maryles are a perfect family. You are idle summers of fresh berries and glacé, fluffy cakes, Sunday strolls in the park with a bouncing baby in the perambulator.”

  None of George’s memories included such nostalgic memories. In fact, when he thought of his childhood, he remembered standing terrified before his father’s enormous oak desk. He had waited there, chin down, resigned to the harsh punishment that his father would exact for painting a bright yellow and pink parrot on his wall. A good paddling to ensure his son didn’t grow up to be an embarrassing molly of a man.

  The memory made him restless. He desired to get away from this room and into the daylight.

  “Let us go to the park.” He reached for her elbow. “A little sunshine will bleach out all the dark spots in your heart.”

  “Thank you, but there is something I must…I need to do.” She pulled away. “I just want to stay home and sleep.”

  “But Lilith,” he said gently, “you can’t stay here alone. This isn’t your home anymore.”

  “What?” she cried, visibly surprised by his words. “You told those men to put everything back. This is my home!”

  “I had the furniture and art returned because I have no other place to store it at present. I can’t in good conscience allow an unmarried lady of three and twenty to be on her own.”

  “You are not my owner!”

  He studied her fierce, defiant face and bit back his sharp retort about how she needed one.

  “Do you have any notion of proper society, Miss Dahlgren?” The enormous amount of polishing that she would require before he could pop her off to a respectable gentleman sank in. “You don’t, do you? No. You shall come to my home where you shall be under the wise chaperonage of my sister. While there, you shall practice wholesome habits and enjoy proper company. My sister and I will endeavor to teach you the finer points of manners, polite conversation, and the delicacies of better society—graces a gentleman of proper station will require of a wife.”

  Her mouth dropped open as if he had slapped her rather than saved her hide again. He only wished someone would take such good care of him—that he could set down his mantle of worry and responsibility for a day.

  “I know all about the so-called finer points of manners, conversation, and delicacy.” She was on her feet now. “I was sent to finishing school not once but twice.”

  He refrained from commenting about the waste of good money because he didn’t care to sport a blackened eye to Parliament.

  “Has it ever occurred to you, George, that I am the way I am because I desire to be? I am not an ignorant yahoo or a freakish aberration. I know this is shocking to hear, but not everyone finds membership in your elite circle of society the pinnacle of human existence.”

  She couldn’t be worked on in this state. Now she waited with her eyes glittering and hands clenched, ready for the battle that he refused to fight.

  “Right.” He snatched up a pillow from the sofa and aimed it.

  “Don’t you dare!”

  He shot her a smile and tossed the cushion in the air. She had to catch it, else it would land on her head. In the meantime, he seized her book of poetry. “Why don’t you tell me what constitutes the pinnacle of your existence during a little stroll in the park,” he said. “You can take Keats along, of course.” But he didn’t relinquish the volume. Instead he walked away with it, using it as a lure.

  Four

  “Isn’t it a stunning day,” George declared. The sunshine glistened on the lush grass and sparkled on the water. He protected Lilith’s Keats volume in the crook of his arm and beat a steady rhythm with his walking stick. “It inspires one to write poems about the beauty of nature and such.”

  “Hand me my book, you vile toad,” Lilith spat. She trailed a foot behind him.

  “That’s Lord Vile Toad to you. Or perhaps Lord Vile Fusty Frog is more appropriate. I will also answer to Your Exultant Fusty Frog and Your Fusty Frog Eminence.” And he couldn’t help but add with an arched brow over his shoulder, “And it’s rumored that if you give me kisses, I’ll dispense golden balls.”

  “Is that what you call your little surprise last night?” A challenging light burned in her eyes.

  That devil inside him, who always came out to play in Lilith’s company, volleyed back. “Little surprise?” His words were inappropriate and ungentlemanly, but he enjoyed seeing her mouth drop. Don’t play with fire or my manhood and not expect to get burned. Frog, indeed.

  Alas, his humor was short-lived. Ahead, a cluster of fashionable people strolled, surrounded by several ladies and gentlemen on horseback. George could make out Mrs. Pomfret, the wife of a powerful Tory MP from Yorkshire, and her daughter Cecelia. Guests at his upcoming house party. If he continued down this path, introductions would have to be made, evoking curious inquiries. Lilith, in her angry state, might make a scene. Correct that thought; she would make a scene even if she didn’t open her mouth. She was like a rare white tiger. Stunning, but deadly. He couldn’t release her into genteel society until he had properly trained her.

  He seized her arm and veered onto a smaller path protected from view by spreading trees.

  She wasn’t fooled.

  “Oh, Georgie, were those some of your dear society friends?” Her voice was all saccharine and innocence. She tugged at his arm. “Shall I ask them if they know about your little golden balls? Or will you give me my book back?”

  “Truce.” He offered up the book.

  “Victory.” She closed it to her bosom.

  For several minutes, they walked in silence. He struggled to keep from glancing at her, taking
in the way sunlight, filtered through the leaves, fell like lace upon her skin and how the breeze blew her hair willy-nilly about her cheeks. He wanted to somehow preserve this moment. He remembered her words from the other evening: “It’s about capturing the ethereal and fleeting…” In his mind he saw this moment painted, all the colors and textures of the brushstrokes.

  “George, why are you staring at me?”

  He didn’t realize he had fallen down a rabbit hole of thought. A mental leather strap slapped his wrist, and he hastened to cover his slip. “I’m thinking about what kind of husband would suit you.”

  “You mean what kind of husband would suit you for me? Does England have a bachelor diplomat in Siberia or Bangkok?”

  “You may laugh, but now is your chance. What kind of man do you desire? What respectable man’s society would represent the pinnacle of your existence so that I may find a genteel version of him for you? Or you can leave me to my own devices. Tell me, how do you feel about musty cigars or reading religious tracts?”

  He casually chuckled to hide his curiosity. If she had ever fancied a man, she had never told him about it. He wondered what she found desirable.

  “You’re a bachelor and a marquess. It’s more important for you to marry than me, so you can get busy creating a little marquess, and spare marquesses and daughters to barter for powerful clanlike alliances. Tell me what kind of wife you desire.”

  “No more games, Lilith. It’s your future we are deciding.”

  “It’s not a game. You tell me about you, and I’ll tell you about me. A fair trade.”

  “Very well.” He stopped walking. Behind him, ducks skimmed along the water’s surface.

  “I prefer…” He paused. On the tip of his tongue was Colette. But he wouldn’t admit he desired a fictional character. That bit of lunacy he kept to himself. “I prefer…a gentle lady possessing pleasing manners and a clear mind,” he said. “She must be charming but never vulgar. She must never embarrass me but assert herself in quiet ways.”

  This was harder than he thought. He couldn’t explain that what he wanted was a woman to hold him safe to her body, soothe the restlessness inside him, say the words he couldn’t express, tell him that she loved him only and fully. Instead, he said, “She should be tasteful and understated in her appearance.”

  The edge of Lilith’s mouth hiked up in a way that said Are you jesting? “I’m shocked that you are not already married. There are many eligible ladies, as well as sofas, chairs, and ornamental rugs that fit that description.”

  “I answered your question,” he said hotly. “And you mocked me.”

  She flinched as if he had stung her. When would he ever learn to stop playing her games? He was so busy mentally berating himself that he almost didn’t hear her speak. She was using that unsettling quiet voice again. “I prefer a man who is kind.”

  “Merely kind? Not wildly romantic? Handsome in a severe Gothic manner? Brooding? Poetic—a modern Keats? A misunderstood artist?”

  “You don’t know me at all.” The wind blew a strand of hair across her mouth. Again he felt the sensation that he was staring at one of those insane Impressionists’ paintings. All the beauty and light assaulted his senses.

  “Kindness,” she continued, “loyalty, and a home.”

  “Only kindness, loyalty, and a home?”

  She thought for a few seconds more. He could see the machinations of her mysterious mind working behind her eyes. “Yes.”

  “What about love?”

  “I didn’t realize it was in the offering.”

  “It could be. I could introduce you to a brooding poet of excellent breeding, competent accounting skills, and deep funds, and you could fall madly in love with him. And then you would have me to thank.”

  She walked on. “I think your definition of love and mine are very different.”

  “What is your definition?”

  “You wouldn’t understand, and you would mock me if I tried to explain.”

  He clasped her elbow, halting her progress. “I promise to be deadly serious.”

  She clutched her book tighter. On the river, a male duck raised high in the water and beat his wings to challenge another duck. George studied her as she watched the ensuing water fight and heated pursuit across the river.

  “I’ll just take kindness and loyalty in a husband,” she said, still looking out at the river. “He must provide me a home, a true home, and he can’t leave me.”

  “You should have told me this earlier. There are many more-than-suitable gentlemen who meet the bare requisites.”

  “Are there?” she whispered, no hint of the usual derision in her voice. When she turned her head, her large eyes earnest, the tears were starting to collect in the corners. He felt her pain in his own heart again. He longed to hold her, comfort her. Good God, this woman lit up his emotions. One minute he was furious at her and the next filled with sadness.

  “Lilith, you could have…bloody hell!”

  “What?”

  “It’s the Duke of Cliven and his son, Lord Charles.” He nodded to two men strolling down the path. Both men sported canes and carefully tailored clothes.

  The elder was tall with powerful shoulders, well-trimmed gray lambchop whiskers, and somber eyes in a lined face. He said very little, but when he did, bills were passed, prime ministers made, and treaties signed.

  His third son, Lord Charles, was trim and athletic. Lord Charles was the most dashing, most witty, most sought-after man in London, according to George’s sister. George knew him as his tormentor at Eton, rallying the other boys to ape George in the corridors and hide his Latin work. Now he and his father were the most powerful Whigs in Parliament, their influence spanning both houses. They sat on the fence regarding the Stamp Duty Extension Bill, enjoying letting George toad-eat them.

  George had to make a decision of national importance in a matter of a few seconds. Stay, introduce Lilith, and put the tax bill in jeopardy, or hurry along and pretend not to see them.

  He seized her elbow and spun her around. “Time to go back.”

  “Afraid to be seen with me?”

  “Not at all,” he lied, affecting a pleasant voice while trying to drag her along.

  “Hello there, Lord Marylewick,” Lord Charles called. “Wait up, my good man.”

  “Fuckery,” George growled under his breath.

  Lilith giggled. “I didn’t know you were capable of such vibrant language. I rather like it.”

  “This is no laughing matter,” George hissed under his breath. “I need their votes for an important bill. I’m begging you, Lilith. For once in your life, behave.”

  He affixed an amiable expression on his face and waved at Lord Charles. “Fine day, is it not?”

  “You think I can’t behave?” Lilith asked.

  “I really don’t have the time for this discussion,” George growled through his pleasant countenance. “Don’t ruin this bill for me, Lilith. Or you will regret it.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yes.”

  What happened next took on that odd sensation George always experienced when tumbling from a horse. Time slowed so that he could notice every detail: the mischievous smile that snaked over Lilith’s lips. The father’s and son’s expressions as the dazzling lady turned her mesmerizing gaze on them. The guile darkening Lord Charles’s eyes. The burning fist twisting in George’s gut when he bowed and the fatal words fell from his lips. “Your Grace, Lord Charles, may I present my…er…cousin, Miss Lilith Dahlgren.”

  Time returned to its normal speed as the conversations collided.

  “Miss Lilith Dahlgren!” Lord Charles stopped in his tracks. His predatory expression was momentarily knocked away before returning stronger than before. “We meet at last.” He bowed, a head-flinging, hand-sweeping act worthy of the stage.

&
nbsp; “At last?” She blinked and performed a graceful curtsy.

  “You attended school with my sister, Evangelina. For years, all we heard was Miss Lilith Dahlgren said this, Miss Lilith Dahlgren wore that. You made quite an impression on her.”

  “I had no idea.” Lilith smiled, a gracious, polite one that George hadn’t seen before.“Miss Evangelina certainly didn’t require my fashion sense. She is quite the beauty. And so thoughtful and kind.” This last compliment she addressed to the father, melting his usual grave countenance.

  “Ah, she is but a slave to society’s whims, a mere follower, not a leader such as yourself,” Charles said. “All these last months, I’ve walked into art galleries to find to my dismay you had just been there. In fact, we missed each other by mere minutes at Paris last summer. I met your cousins instead—Mr. and Mrs. Edgar Dahlgren, no? I hope I don’t put your nerves on edge when I admit I’ve been quite desirous to meet you. But you know, the more you desire something, the more elusive it becomes. I was beginning to believe that you were a dream.”

  “But now you have met me,” she said, a bright twinkle in her eye. “Do you not think our dreams are far better than harsh reality?”

  “Even in my dreams I could not imagine such magnificence as you.”

  Lilith laughed, a musical sound.

  George was offended. He would never dream of being so fast with one of his sister’s classmates whom he had just met. But the duke only chortled at his son’s outrageous behavior, clearly as bamboozled by Charles as the rest of London society.

  “Ah, I’ve made you blush prettily, which was really my objective,” Charles said. “How has it escaped my notice all these years that you were Lord Marylewick’s dear cousin? Marylewick, I demand that you meet me at dawn. You, my lord, must eat grass for this unpardonable offense of omission.”

  The man needed a proper set-down, but damned if George could deliver it.

  “You are deliciously absurd,” Lilith told Lord Charles. How easily she slipped into his breezy urbanity.